


Magnetism

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Rescue Missions, everyone except roy and ed are background characters, i love writing h/c lmao, this was fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>magnetism<br/>ˈmaɡnɪtɪz(ə)m/<br/>noun<br/>1.<br/>a physical phenomenon produced by the motion of electric charge, which results in attractive and repulsive forces between objects.<br/>2.<br/>the ability to attract and charm people.</p><p>-----------------------------------</p><p>They're drawn to each other. They always have been, and they always will be, and maybe just this once (or twice, or three times, or- fuck it), it isn't such a bad thing after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnetism

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY FOR BEING GONE FOR SO LOOOOOOONGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!! i havent forsaken you, i promise, i've been writing!!!!! i just havent actually finished much lmao /cries   
> things that are cool: I'm going to MCM comic con in london on the 23rd, so if any of yall are from the uk and are also going, NICE!!!!  
> also i wrote this while listening to the lord of the rings theme on repeat and now im sad lmao pls enjoy <3  
> (disclaimer: i don't know if 'Toter' is a word, im pretty sure i made it up, i don't care)
> 
> Based on a line from [this](www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMWZUxwNmSY) song !

 

 _"And the north isn't true / 'til it's leading me to you_." Demons // Dry the River

 

***

 

He’s never been this cold in his life. The metal door reverberates from the impact of his boot, again and again, and stays firmly closed. Taunting him. His breath steams out before him in a cloud of water molecules and his hands are shaking, automail rattling at his side.   
Fuck.   
Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He shuffles back again, spins and slams another kick into the door. It shakes, slightly, and stays locked.

“F- _Fuck!_ ” Ed says, hand flying to his automail shoulder, digging into the sharply burning tissue there; “ _Fuck_!”

This sucks so much. _So much_. Why’d he have to get captured by the Anti-Amestris Drachman rebellion group and thrown in a fucking _ice cellar_? He was only supposed to be in Drachma for a few days, to scout around before Roy came up to meet him with the rest of the Amestris-Drachman Relationship Reparation Team (Roy, Hawkeye, Havoc, himself, and usually Al, too, although not in any official sense; Ed wasn’t letting his brother anywhere _near_ the military ever again _)._

Speaking of the War-Prevention Squad, where the fuck _were_ they?

Ed kicks the door again, and again, and then he unpeels his hand from his automail- ouch- and rattles the handle. It’s been alchemy-proofed by some asshole; he’d found _that_ out fucking three days ago when they first chucked him in here. The whole room is, floor included. He’d checked, multiple times.

So, no clap-sparking his way out of this one, then.

At first, his plan was to sit and wait for someone to come down to interrogate him, and then beat the shit out of them and get the fuck out, but for whatever reason, that hasn’t actually happened yet- and it’s been three days, and Ed doesn’t have a coat, and it’s _freezing_ , and it’s fucking _dark_ down here and god damn it he _misses Roy._

There. He said it- thought it; whatever, the point is, he _misses_ Roy, and this is a _problem_. A damn huge problem; one he’s been trying to _ignore_ for the past three months.  
  
 (The cool wood of the front door against his knuckles, the soft creak as it swings open, soft amber light pulling him in to close it behind him, shutting out the rain-streaked street behind. “Oh. Fullmetal. To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Cut the crap, you bastard, you know exactly what I’m here for-,” The collar of the military uniform rough on his fingers as he yanks Roy down to meet him, those dark eyes widening, sliding closed- “Ed- I-,” “Don’t fuck with me, Co- Roy. Don’t _fuck_ with me.” Spitting sparks and angry, and he’s waited two years for this. “I’m not fifteen anymore, Roy. Stop _pretending_ like I’m still a fucking _child-,”_ Searching eyes and parted lips and Roy leans down, careful, presses his lips to Ed’s. Sweet. Soft. Slow. Draws back, aching. “Why’d you-?” “Ed, I’m sorry.”)  
  
 Scowling, Ed stamps over to the tiny pile of smouldering ashes that five minutes ago, he called fire.

If Roy was here, he’d just snap his fingers, and- boom. Warmth.

Unfortunately, Ed isn’t very good at the whole flame alchemy thing; he’s already singed the ends of his hair off. Doesn’t mean he’s just gonna give up, though; if anything, he’s determined to master it just so he can gloat about it in front of Roy (that bastard) when-

When what? When Roy comes to get him? To rescue him? Fuck that.

 Fuck _that_ ; Ed doesn’t need rescuing, he needs someone to come down here with the intention of torturing information out of him so he can knock them unconscious and break _himself_ out.  
 He’s done it before, it’s fun.

What’s _not_ fun is the whole freezing-himself-to-death thing.

And he’s kind of worried about the automail.

Teeth chattering, Ed sinks to his knees next to the pile of ashes and, clumsily, claps his left hand against his dangling right one. The automail swings limply from the impact. He presses his fingers- numb, bloodless, probably frostbitten- to the ashes, and with a crackle of arcing blue light, the shards of kindling are reformed and ready for burning.

(His automail arm has passed over the border of painful into numb, and it won’t move, no matter how hard he tries to make it.)

Ed closes his eyes, presses his palms together again, and- concentrates. On warmth, red and gold and orange flickering over his skin, on leaping flames reflected in dark eyes, on the deepening hotness of the kiss and the soft brush of a thumb sweeping over his cheekbone, on clear oxygen and smoke-edged molecules colliding; on pure, dancing energy and twisting columns of heat-

There is a small _pop_ , and the sticks burst into flame.

 

He sits back, stretches his flesh fingers over the heat; in the back of his mind Al is telling him not to let his skin get too close to the flame- it might not hurt now, brother, but it certainly will later- and opens his eyes.

The skin around the shoulder port is inflamed and angry; Ed’s only got his black tank top to protect him from the elements, fucking _great_ job that’s doing.

Shadows stretch across the ceiling. Snow scuffs across the floor. Beads of water slide down the walls. His breath steams the air. Ice crystals twinkle gently over the metal of the door, and it’s so cold, it’s so _cold_. It’s so cold it’s starting to not be cold anymore; it’s starting to be kind of warm, actually, like a blanket-

Oh. Is that the floor? Hard against his skull, sending prickles of cold through his hair and directly into his brain, but his brain is covered nicely in a layer of cotton wool and Ed doesn’t care about that, doesn’t care about anything…

 

The shadows are lengthening. The fire is already sputtering out; Ed needs to sit up and alchemise the wood again, he needs to stand up and keep trying to kick in the door…physical exertion is good for warming you up, he should jump up and down and try wrenching the door from its hinges…

Or he could just lay here, snow all around him. It’s getting in his eyes, too; little white spots crowding his vision.

Al. Roy.

Vaguely, Ed is aware that he is experiencing several symptoms of severe hypothermia. This is a bad thing, he recognises, but also, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s just so tired.

After everything, after _everything_ , he’s just so tired.

It’s not like there’s any point anymore, either. Al’s back, Roy’s the fuhrer (bitterly, _Roy’s the fuhrer_ : “Ed, I’m sorry. We can’t.” “You bastard, you’re the fucking _fuhrer_ , can’t you just- change the fucking law? For me?” “Ed…”), everyone’s achieved their goals so Ed can just sleep, now, can’t he? It’s okay if he just sleeps, now, isn’t it?

His eyes are closed, now.

Somewhere in the edges of his awareness, the door is opening, voices swimming.

“No,” he tries to say, “Go ‘way. Sleeping.”

“Ed! He won’t wake up- do something-,”

“Sir, Alphonse is outside- should I call him in?”

“There’s got to be something- the Xingese alchemy, anything, I could- no, it’s too dangerous, he could get hurt-,”

“Stay here, sir, try to warm him up; I’ll fetch Alphonse-,”

Rough gloves on his face, patting his cheeks. Blazing skin, so hot against his face, his arms.

Quietly, now: “ _…_ Shit.”

Low, close: “Ed, I’m sorry.”

He knows this voice. “Ed, I should’ve been here sooner.”

Oh. Of course. It’s Roy. He did come, after all. “Ed, don’t you dare die.”

Die? He’s not dying. He tries to open his mouth to tell Roy this; why would he be dying? Fucking ridiculous; he’s just having a little sleep, can’t Roy _see_ that? His mouth won’t move. That’s worrying.

“ _Ed_.”

“Ed, open your eyes. Please.”

Something freezing cold, scrubbing against his arms, his face. No, stop that, he says, that hurts.

“God _damn_ it, Ed, open your _eyes_ -,”

It’s strange; he can’t see a thing except the weird little back-of-your-eyelid swirls and colours you see with your eyes shut, but he swears in that moment he sees every fucking detail of Roy’s face in sharp relief, dark eyes and marble skin, cheeks flushed pink with the cold.

A new voice, now, one he knows instantly.

“Brother!”

Al, it’s okay, he says, I’m just sleeping, don’t worry. I’ll wake up later.  

“We need to get him warm- but be careful, raising his body temperature too rapidly could harm his nervous system- we need to move him; this whole place is alchemy-proofed, the transmutation won’t work-,”

What transmutation? The ground has swung away from him; strong arms support his back and legs. Put me down, he says, I can _walk_ , I’m not _three_.

“Is here alright?”

“Yes, put him there, in the middle-,”

Down again, to rest on hard flooring. Light flashes beyond his eyelids. He misses the scratchy press of the material pressed into his back and legs. Military uniform material. Roy.

“Brother?” Al. Al, I’m fine, it’s okay, just let me _sleep_ -

“-Ed?” Roy.   
  
Roy, you carried me, why’d you carry me? Didn’t you say back then that we can’t, you can’t, the military won’t allow it and you could get in so much trouble and what about me? What about how I feel? Didn’t you say it wasn’t allowed? Didn’t you say you were sorry? Didn’t you let me kiss you once (brief, clumsy, hot and cold and sad and happy and all kind of right and all kind of wrong) then tell me _Ed, I’m sorry, we can’t, I- God, I wish we could but- while you’re in military employment it’s impossible, Ed, I can’t make this any harder for you than it already is and I can’t let this happen; I can’t hurt you-?_

Everything is very still and very silent for a moment. Ed sinks back down into the warm darkness, head lolling. Sleep beckons like a very old and very tired siren dragging him backwards into the abyss.

And then: pain.

Pain like he’s never known before- or maybe like he _has_ known before; like automail attachment and the wrenching scouring screaming agony of having your molecules stripped away then glued back together again by a faceless being in a bottomless void; pain like hot tears on your face and the knowledge that _you’ve fucked up, now, you’ve fucked up and there is no way,_ no way, _of ever, ever fixing this-_

Pain like fucking wildfires scorching his fingers, his toes, his _lungs_ \- he chokes, coughs; his face, his legs, his arms are on fire, he’s _burning_ -

His eyes fly open.

“He’s alive!” says someone. It sounds like Havoc.

Al’s face swims into view first. He’s wearing his Brother, You Have Done Something Extremely Dangerous And I am Very Glad You’re Still Alive expression. God, he has _expressions_ now. Ed won’t ever, ever get tired of Al’s face, Al’s eyes, Al’s _hair_.

Slowly, Ed pushes himself up off the floor onto his forearms- fucking _hell_ , that hurts- and cracks a grin, sheepishly.

“….Hey, Al. So, how were negotiations?”

Al’s face changes from concerned to angry to exasperated in nought point two seconds flat, and with a huff he reaches forward and pulls Ed into a fierce hug.

“Brother, you are so _stupid_ ,” he hisses, and squeezes, hard. Ed makes a small _ow_ noise, and hugs him back, arms tight around his brother. “We thought you were _dead_!”

“well, I mean- ow- at least you got to test out your medical alchemy, ri- _shit_ , Al, that _hurt_ -,”

Al draws back, and Ed scowls up at him, massaging the arm he just punched. Al reaches behind him and throws a bundle of red material at Ed; it hits him in the face and lands in his lap, and he can’t even be angry about because, hey.

“My coat! Where’d you find it? Fuckers took it from me,” Ed says, wrapping it around himself and standing, wincing as his automail contracts with the cold. “Shit, that’s sore. We’re leaving now, right?”

He looks around; they’re in the entryway to the Drachman rebel’s base. “Don’t skimp out on comfort here, do they?” Ed remarks, staring at the icy walls, the snow-sprinkled floor.

Behind Al is Hawkeye, Black Hayate at her heel, the both of them looking supremely unruffled by the extreme cold and poised to take down the entire Drachman army if needs be, and beside her is Havoc, chewing nervously on his cigarette, winter coat ripped in some places by what Ed can only assume was gunfire, and beside _him_ -

Al slings an arm around Ed’s waist, and Ed pretends to try to push him off, secretly indescribably grateful to his little brother for letting him lean on him to take the weight off his leg, and Roy’s eyes are locked on his as if he couldn’t look away if he tried. And he is trying. Ed knows the feeling.   
 Relief, bone-deep, soul-searing _relief_ , flickers across Roy’s face, and Ed thinks about the tiny flames licking their way over the tiny kindling twigs back in the cellar room, and grins, slowly.

“Hey, _colonel_ ,” he says, as Al starts chivvying them all back up the corridor and out into the glare of the snow outside, and he watches with a grin as Roy turns, eyes landing on the singed tips of Ed’s hair, stuttering as they flick over his face. “Guess what I learnt?”

 

 

 

***

 

 

Usually, Roy’s quite good with people.   
Then again, usually Roy’s not being held at gunpoint by a group of masked soldiers, though.

One of them steps forwards and says something in rapid Aerugan- too fast for Roy to follow.

“Sorry?” he asks, keeping himself perfectly composed. The cuffs around his wrists are _just_ loose enough for him to maybe be able to twist his hands around to press them together-

The person steps forwards again, lifting their gun. Through the blank mask covering their face, Roy sees their eyes, close up, red-rimmed and fevered. He opens his mouth to say something soothing, and the eyes narrow; they pull back, lashing out before Roy can react: the gun smashes into the side of his head and he stumbles. With his hands pulled tight behind him there’s nothing to stop him from breaking his face on one of the many rocks scattered around them in the dust-

Another thing Roy’s usually good with: heat. Except, not today, apparently, because he hasn’t had anything to drink in about seven hours, and he’s suffering for it.   
He sways, keeps himself upright through force of will. The person steps right up close, locks eyes on him, screams something loud and aggressive-sounding into his face. Roy raises an eyebrow and stares them down, passive, cool, entertaining himself with the thought of them having to either spend the rest of the day breathing in their own spit after that torrent of semi-coherent verbal abuse, or risk revealing their identity by taking off their mask to relieve themselves of the discomfort.

Riza and the rest of the international relations entourage- Havoc, Breda, and Ed- will be here soon. Roy knows that. It’s just that it’s so much easier to be optimistic when you’re accompanied by several extremely talented soldiers that you trust with your life, than when you’re standing in the middle of god-knows-where with your hands tied behind your back and-

Ah. Someone behind him is talking. Roy listens closely, not taking his eyes off Jittery-Gun-Toter; with a small degree of satisfaction he watches their shoulders tighten in discomfort. They break their gaze after less than five seconds, and Roy allows himself an inward smirk.

Pathetic, honestly. Ed can keep eye contact with Roy’s ‘smug bastard face’ for longer than four hours, _while_ ranting.

Oh, hell, now he’s done it. _Don’t think about Ed. Don’t think about his eyes, or his hair, or the way he smiles at you sometimes, half wickedly dangerous and half intensely affectionate; don’t think about what a good kisser he is, how fast he’s learned; don’t think about the way he rolls out of bed and stretches, catlike, muscles working smoothly under his tanned skin-_

Roy reminds himself to glare at Ed for a while when he sees him again; he was distracted and therefore missed _half_ of whatever the person behind him was saying, and now someone is prodding him in the lower back with what feels like the butt of a rifle.

Jittery-Gun-Toter folds their arms, jerking their head forwards, and Roy starts walking, watching the horizon. The sun pounds his back, the heat curls from the cracked earth and worms its way into his head. Roy keeps his head up and his back straight as they walk. He can’t let them see how uncomfortable he is, how much he longs for water. In front of him, Jittery-Gun-Toter holsters their weapon and pulls out a water skin, taking a, exaggeratingly long draught. Drops of water fall to the ground, their tiny patches of damp earth drying in seconds, evaporating before they have a chance to soak into the parched ground. Roy makes a concerted effort not to swallow.

To distract himself from the way his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, Roy concentrates on figuring out what the hell’s going on.

He knows who the group are; they’re anti-Amestris Activists, and honestly, he doesn’t blame them for being. How can he, after everything the military’s done? Everything _he’s_ done?   
Still, this was meant to be a diplomatic mission, and Roy hasn’t even had the chance to have a proper meeting with the head of state yet.

 _Where_ is Riza? _Where_ is Ed?

He’s got a headache now, that can’t be good. And the dry smell of the heat is reminding him of Ishval; there’s a very faint roaring in his ears. He forces his legs to move, to take another step, and another, and another, doesn’t let his mask fall. Another step. Another.

Where are they taking him? Honestly, Roy had expected to have been shot by now, or at least _injured_. They’ve barely done anything to him- except lead him out into the middle of the desert. Maybe that’s their plan. Maybe they’re going to take him so far from the dirt-track road that he can’t find his way back, and leave him there to die.

Ed looks good in the sunlight, Roy thinks, because he’s already suffering so he might as well give up and go the _whole_ way. Ed hates the heat, because of his automail, but he _does_ look good in the sunlight. They’ve only been in Aerugo for a few days; they’re near the desert border, which explains the inescapable _heat,_ and Ed’s been complaining since they arrived. He has a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose and his hair is already three shades lighter, skin tanned and glowing.

(“You don’t have to come, you know.” “Shut up, bastard. I know. I’m coming. Help me with my fucking suitcase, it won’t open-,”)

He flat out refused to wear the uniform, something that Roy is remarkably envious of, now. Layers of heat are trapped under the heavy, stiff material; Ed’s been walking around with loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt to cover his automail, _sneering_.

God, Roy misses him. He twists his wrists again, straining to turn them enough to press his fingers together, and the cuffs dig in sharply. There are fucking _millimetres_ between his fingertips; his skin prickles. _Damn it._

Minutes, hours, months, years pass. In the distance, something grey is rising out of the clouds of dust and heat waves- or at least, Roy thinks it is. It could just be hallucinations brought on by dehydration and heat exhaustion.

The gun barrel jabs at his back again; Jittery-Gun-Toter turns to wave their own firearm in Roy’s face, and he raises an eyebrow, sighing. He regrets it immediately, realising that what tiny, miniscule fragments of moisture he had left have just left his body with the sigh, evaporating into the clinging air.

If he could _just_ turn his wrists that _tiny_ bit more, he could free himself and get the hell out of here. Roy’s never transmuted metal, but he’s sure he can work it out with some thought. And once the cuffs are off, he’s the Flame Alchemist.

Ishval, and screams, and the smell of burning flesh.

Roy wishes he could swallow back the revulsion clawing its way up his scorched throat.

They stop walking. A few yards ahead is a grey cube of stone, sides worn and stained by dust and what Roy suspects is blood.

The gun is removed from his back.

Jittery-Gun-Toter steps forwards, gun raised. Their eyes are alight through the holes in their mask.

The gun barrel glints, and Roy stares into it, a black hole, a void- he remembers the sensation of falling, grasping black tendrils and the twin swords sending beams of hot agony through the palms of his hands; the crackling blue of a transmutation and a huge stone gate, a voice, a smile- and then, nothing.

He twists his wrists, savage, and the burst of pain followed by the hot welling of blood is nothing compared to the memory of Ed’s voice, Ed’s hands, shaking him: “ _What did they take from you?”_

He presses his hands together.

Nothing happens.

Well, fuck.

 

Jittery-Gun-Toter’s eyes widen, and narrow, and Roy can see the smile even through the mask; there are hands gripping his shoulders, his arms; he struggles, his head is spinning, why won’t his alchemy work? Why won’t his alchemy work? Why-?

The gunshot is as loud as a Roy’s heartbeat, and it takes him a moment to register the fact that he’s not actually dead.

“Roy!”

“Sir!”

Riza, of course, Roy thinks, dimly; her aim is as good as ever. Ed throws open the door of the army truck, apparently not caring that it’s still moving, and sprints through the sand, hair whipping out behind him like a ribbon.

Jittery-Gun-Toter’s mask clatters onto the ground as they slump, eyes wide, in the dust. Grains of sand stick to their eyelids. A red pool is spreading under their temple.

The waterskin is lying next to them. Roy bends, picks it up, and the last dregs of water splash out of the rip in the side, running down the backs of his hands.

“Roy,” says Ed, and Roy looks up, frowning. When did Ed get here? His hair is a mess, he’s breathing heavily, and he has red smudges on his knuckles.  “You’re bleeding, shit, are you okay? You look weird. Hey, doesn’t he look weird?”

“Sir?”

There’s Riza, too. Roy shakes his head, to clear the fuzzy blackness at the edges of his vision.

“Hey, Roy. Roy!” There’s a note of alarm in Ed’s voice; Roy blinks, sways. Ed’s eyes are so close, mere centimetres away, blinking concernedly into his. “His eyes are all weird. Roy?”

“Ed,” Roy says. His head hurts. The other soldiers are lying all around him, shadows stretched dark over the sand. Suddenly, Roy is very, very tired.

“He must be dehydrated,” says Riza, worry filtering through her voice, and she holds something out to Ed. “Here, water-,”

Ed presses the water bottle into Roy’s hands. “Roy, hey, Roy, drink this, don’t- shit-,”

The sand presses into his knees. Oh. He fell. How embarrassing.

 

*

 

Roy opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the bright light. He’s lying on a hard surface; his back aches. The ceiling above him is dark wood. It’s too bright; he squints.

“Thank _fuck_ , you’re awake,” says Ed, appearing quite suddenly above him and leaning down to stare intensely into Roy’s eyes, “I’ve been trying to wake you up for, like, three fucking _hours_ , you dumbass. Why’d you have to go and get yourself dehydrated, idiot?”

Slowly, Roy sits up, blinking. The hard surface, he realises, is a bench, and they’re in…some kind of hut?

“We’re on the border of Amestris and Aerugo,” Ed says, handing him a bottle of water. He’s sitting cross legged on a rickety wooden chair next to Roy. His tone is light, but there’s a tightness around his eyes. He tosses his hair out of his face, reaching forward and picking up the hand Roy isn’t using to hold the water, absentmindedly playing with his fingers. “Couldn’t move you, sorry. I had to perform _medical alchemy_ in the middle of the fucking _desert_ , you know. Dumbass.”

Roy takes a long sip of water, and realises he is extremely thirsty. Parched. Dehydrated. Spitting feathers. _Thirsty_.

Ed watches as he drains the bottle. He sets it down when he’s finished, turning to swing his legs over the side of the bench so he’s facing Ed, and takes a deep breath. He feels moderately more alive and less like someone who, after being run over several times by a large steamroller, was put in the oven and left to bake for eight or nine hours.

“You’re feeling better, th-,” says Ed, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Roy leans over and kisses him.

Ed makes a surprised little sound into Roy’s mouth, before leaning in and returning the kiss with enthusiasm, and something like desperation; he takes a fistful of Roy’s shirt and Roy slides a hand into his hair- _I’m here, Ed, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t leave you again, I’m sorry, I love you_ \- and Ed mumbles something unintelligible into the kiss, drags Roy closer still.

Eventually, the need, the struggle to say in a kiss all the things they can’t say out loud, lessens, ebbs, and they are quiet, gentle, soft. Somewhere along the way, Ed has stopped playing with Roy’s fingers and is instead gripping his hand; Roy clings to him like he’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. And he is, really, isn’t he?  
  
After a while, Roy breaks back, opening his eyes, and cups Ed’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Ed closes his eyes, and leans in to press a kiss to Roy’s neck, right over his pulse. “’S okay.”

“No, Ed- _thank you_.” Ed needs to know, needs to understand- that Roy isn’t just talking about _today_ (or yesterday- Roy isn’t sure), he’s talking about everything. All of it.

Ed lifts his head, meets Roy’s eyes with his golden ones and the relief in them is palpable. “I’m just returning the favour,” he says, but Roy knows he understands. “You know, for that one time you helped me break out of that ice-prison place. Equivalent exchange and all.”

Roy shakes his head, laughs, pulls Ed close. “’Helped you break out’,” he repeats, “You were _dying_ on the _floor_ when I arrived.”

(He says it lightly, as if it’s a joke, but they both know it’s not; _death_ is such a finality, one that Ed has cheated too many times to count, and Roy can’t bear- _cannot bear_ \- to watch him die again.)

“Shut the fuck up,” says Ed, but he’s still holding Roy’s hand, fingers tightening in his, and Roy knows he means, _I’m here_.

“You’re sunburnt, Ed,” says Roy, and what he means is _I’m here, too_.

He squeezes Ed’s hand, and Ed squeezes back, and the unspoken words are louder than the faded ringing in Roy’s ears, and that’s good enough for them.

 


End file.
